


last day of magic

by sharkattax



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Multi, Ownership, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-28
Updated: 2012-09-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 05:05:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharkattax/pseuds/sharkattax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>derek, stiles, jackson, peeing. (taking some artistic license by ignoring the kanima arc.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	last day of magic

Beacon Hills smells like earth and sun, rich indigo at the horizon, mossy warm underfoot. Stiles’ hands graze through the mud, lush and smooth, caking under his bitten nails. His smile is even; symmetrical but small, so unlike his usual pale smirk, his usual gaping, slack-jawed awe. The last heady vacation days roll into cinders, like a stolen mouthful of cider, a lung of chicory smoke, and the air is sticky-sour-sweet and the clouds hanging low glow on their bellies and on Stiles’ face; a thin sheen of summer fever that reminds him of sleeping in the wrong clothes at the turn of the season, only he’s not sleeping, though he still might be dreaming. 

 

He licks his lower lip. Every holiday, the infinite days of light would slowly tumble into the gut-digging feeling of going back to school, the see-saw between dreading going back, and _maybe things’ll be different this year_. The grass prickles his ankles. Stiles bows his head and breathes deep; pupils blown, knees filthy, heart pounding. 

 

“You ready?”

“Nice’ve you to ask. I thought you only did that once.”

“New school year.”

“Throwing me a bone?”

“Yeah.”

“Um. Thanks.”

“So. Are you?”

“I..... yeah.”

 

Derek’s shadow casts long and lazy across the sloping yard of the old Hale house, blurry-soft at the edges apart from the clean join at his feet. Standing between the two boys, he sheds his jacket and runs his hands through his hair. Jackson weeps world-weary in the way only a high-schooler can. The great yawning maw of expectation swallows him whole and leaves him bare-boned and empty; desperate for validation on the cusp of manhood, swollen with rejection. He kneels, flushed and sobbing, face pressed into Derek’s thigh. Derek licks his teeth, tip of his tongue tucked into the sharp fall of a lower molar. Stiles quirks his eyebrow, but says nothing. Jackson doesn’t get an ask or an out. (He doesn’t need one.)

 

In the shadow of the seaon, Stiles doesn’t need magical supernatural wolf senses to hear the rough shank of a zipper sliding down waxy worn denim that hasn’t been washed in a little too long, honeycombed to the precise shatters of hard muscle, a second skin. He takes one last deep breath. Jackson drops his head back, embarrassed by the trail of snot still joining him to Derek. His jaw shakes. He _needs_ the pack, even if he hates everyone in it, even if he hates everyone except Lydia and Danny most days of the week.

 

Stiles shivers when he first feels it. It’s hotter than he expected, and the stench bleeds right through him; he feels tattooed where it touches him. It spills down the back of his neck, runs through his hair, along his jaw, down his throat, and he hazards a glance up at Derek- 

 

Derek who’s grinning, tipsy with power, rich gold-red irises bright but calm. He grunts appreciatively, the smell of his mark, his binding, his ownership-

 

“Please. Me next. I. I _need_ -”

“Be _quiet_ , Jackson.” The command is all but a literal bark. Jackson whimpers and covers his mouth with his muddy hands, watching Stiles rock back gently onto his heels, fingers knuckle-deep in the earth as Derek pisses down the front of his shirt, staining and stinking thick as tar, leaking down under the waistband of his track pants. Briefly Stiles wonders just how much Derek had to drink before this, _there must be a fucking gallon here_ , but it’s some freaky werewolf thing, maybe, so it’ll go as long as it needs to, he guesses. It’ll keep going until he’s done. His bellybutton feels sticky. 

 

Jackson buries his face in the mud at Derek’s feet, fingers trembling at the toes of his boot.  “Please, please _pleasepleaseplease_ , I need it I need to have it I need you to want me _I need you to have me fuck Derek please oh god_ ,” an endless litany of prayer into the soil, into the rubber of Derek’s boot, tears flooding his throat.

 

Derek stops, and shakes himself dry. “Stiles,” he says, zipping back up as if he’d just pissed in a truck stop restroom, not wasting any time. “You get to decide.”

“Huh- wha? I get to what?” Stiles runs a hand through his hair, damp and hot and sweet-sour like the end of summer.

“You’re mine, now. I’m an alpha, that holds some weight, a little.... _legislation_. So, you get the privilege of deciding whether he should be, too.” He gestures with a casual sweep towards the mess at his feet.

“Seriously?”

“I don’t joke about these things, Stiles.”

“Huh, that’s funny, I didn’t think you joked about anything.” He got a sneer for that, the slightest point of teeth. Stiles figured he probably deserved that.  


 

“Well. In that case....”


End file.
